


The Weight of Words

by NotSoSirius92



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 15:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20641604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSoSirius92/pseuds/NotSoSirius92
Summary: "The question that drives me hazy: Am I or the others crazy" - Albert Einstein“What are you afraid of?” he asked her again, gently.The words escaped her lips in a soft whisper, but still, the impact they made was deafening.“Everything.”A response to Fairest of the Rares Sing Me a Rare Volume 4.





	The Weight of Words

**Author's Note:**

> Song Prompt: Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande, from the movie "After"  
Much love to my alpha and beta who will remain anonymous for now.

_ We stopped looking for the monsters _

_ under our beds when we realized _

_ they were inside of us. _

_ -Charles Darwin _

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

“What frightens you?”

Hermione pondered the question, weighing her words carefully, rolling them around on her tongue before replying, “I fear nothing.”

Kingsley remained impassive, watching politely as her hands clenched and unclenched against her thighs. 

“Everyone fears something, Hermione. To truly heal from the things you’ve seen, the horrors you’ve experienced, you have to be honest with yourself.”

“I’m here because I’m needed in the Auror ranks,” she scoffed. “To be frank, I’m sure that every single person you know has some form of PTSD or another. _ You _ probably have PTSD, Kingsley. We went through a war. I, among many, was not left unscathed. That does _ not _mean I’ve been rendered incapable of doing my job.” 

“You don’t believe that having a panic attack and raising your wand to your fellow Aurors merits some self-reflection?”

The petite witch glared at him, and Kingsley remained unaffected. Internally, he supposed her severe expression would be fairly intimidating were he a criminal, the last vestiges of the Death Eaters he hunted. The witch was made of Kevlar - bulletproof armor - protecting what he imagined was an extremely vulnerable heart and mind. He’d known her for years, and yet it had only been in the past few months that he’d been assigned as her mentor that he’d truly had an understanding of the witch. 

“Of course I do. But, we’ve been at this for three months and you have yet to clear me for active duty. I haven’t had an episode since, and I take my potions as prescribed. Do not patronize me,” she said testily. 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

The clocks second hand grated against her ears as though they were filled with sand paper.

“What are you afraid of, Hermione? What keeps you awake at night?”

Black hair, cackling laugh. 

_ Mudblood. _

“Nothing,” she grated out, “Fear kills the mind, and I refuse to murder mine. Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. Dead for a while, now.”

“And yet, instead of taking time to recover from the torture you endured, you immediately signed up to place yourself into more life threatening situations. Your friends went back to school and pursued other careers, did they not?”

Kingsley made a note on the parchment he held in front of him, and Hermione tried to bite down the curiosity burning in her throat. 

“They did, indeed. But I have always wanted to go into Law. To do what’s needed of me. We need people to bring in the Death Eaters that have evaded capture thus far. I cannot have it on my conscience to do anything else. Not when someone else could suffer, as I have suffered.” 

She bared her arm to him, impressed when he didn’t so much as flinch. 

Shacklebolt regarded the woman before him. Bitter. Angry. 

Dangerous. 

A beautiful woman with an intelligent mind laced with trauma and grief could be lethal. 

“You don’t think you’ve done enough?”

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

“I’m not crazy,” she whispered, her eyes burning. 

“I’m not concerned about your sanity,” Shacklebolt assured, “I am concerned with your emotional well being. I do not believe you to be a threat to your peers, Hermione— not a true one. You’re a damn good Auror. I say that as your mentor, and as your friend. You’ve beaten back your emotions behind a carefully crafted dam. You’ve never dealt with your past. I would hate for you to be in the field when that dam breaks.”

“You need an outlet.” 

Hermione stared at him, the barest amount of reflection in her expression. The angular lines of her face contrasted starkly with the waves and curves of her hair and body. Shacklebolt wondered if this was what an avenging angel might’ve looked like had they existed. 

The woman before him was so broken. Kind hearted and ruined. But she could come back. He believed in her. It would just take time. He had to be gentle with the words he spoke to her. They could not be too harsh, nor could they be too delicate, as she would reject either. 

Shacklebolt thought for a moment about words, how they’d always meant more to her than any one he knew, whether written or voiced.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked her again, gently. 

The words escaped her lips in a soft whisper, but still, the impact they made was deafening. 

“Everything.”

OoO 

Hermione nursed her troubles with a cold brew and bitter smile. Ginny had dragged her out, forcefully, and Hermione had thought about cursing her until she saw the genuine concern on her friend’s face. Despite her generally rough exterior these days, Hermione was still quite the pushover when it came to her friends. 

Ginny was prattling about with Harry, excited to be in the off season of quidditch so she could pursue as many social events as possible. Harry smiled indulgently at his wife, nodding along with her. 

As it was, it was a regular Friday night at The Dancing Unicorn. Though there was nothing special going on, the place was still packed with plenty of familiar faces, former peers from Hogwarts and Ministry co-workers alike. Many people had greeted her cheerfully, always needing to have a word with Famous Harry Potter and his almost-equally-famous friends. 

Some things never changed. 

Ron sidled up to her, his easy-going grin making her smile genuinely despite herself. 

“Wotcher, Mione,” he said, and kissed her temple before signalling to the barmaid, “knut for your thoughts?”

She sighed wearily. “I didn’t expect my life to turn out this way, I guess. I feel as though I’m constantly out of step. Kingsley still has me on the bloody bench, when I should be out there fighting. I’m one of the best, and am one of the few Aurors left alive that has true combat experience!”

Ron chuckled, “I never thought I’d see the day where you’d display more brawn than brain, Hermione. You know Kings wouldn’t keep you from your job unless he truly felt there was a good reason.”

She narrowed her gaze at him, and Ron’s smile fell slightly. 

“You think he’s right,” she accused, “you believe I shouldn’t be in the field.”

“I didn’t say that. But I do think that out of all the career paths you could have taken, this was the one I least expected. I expected you to be making laws, creating change.. Not ensuring that those laws are enforced. Hermione, you’ve never been a weapon, why now? You’d do just as much good, if not more, in the Wizengamot, or the head of the DMLE. Why settle on the Auror division? That was never what you wanted.”

She wanted to snap on him, but the earnestness in his face told her he wasn’t passing judgement, just genuinely curious.

“We were groomed to be weapons as children. But I understand where you’re coming from, Ron. I just can’t rest until they’re dead. All of them.” 

Her eyes were hard, and Ron missed the days when they’d light up at the sight of books. When she would smile softly when he and Harry finally understood a charm or hex she’d attempted to teach them. 

Hermione Granger was long gone -- and in her place, a warrior. 

Dangerous. 

“Speaking of the devil,” Ron nodded towards the entrance of the pub, where Kingsley and a few other senior Aurors walked in. 

His face was lined with tension, and his eyes met hers before nodding once to his coworkers and making his way over. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked him pointedly. He didn’t look at her as he slid into the bar stool. 

“Mind the tone, Granger, I am merely sitting next to you.”

“I’m not your subordinate here, _ Auror _Shacklebolt.”

He sighed, “I was under the impression we were still friends outside of work.” 

Hermione felt the slightest twinge of guilt settle in her stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and clinked her glass against his as they downed their shots. She winced at the burn. “I don’t feel like myself lately. Times were simpler when all I had to do was ride on the back of a thestral with you.” 

He snorted, finding irony that a war was _ simpler. _

“Simpler?” he repeated back to her. 

She laughed. “Well, yes. Life was hard, but the purpose was clear. You trusted me with your life.” 

“And you trusted me with yours. Has that changed?” 

She looked at him. “No.” 

“So let’s pretend I’m just your friend, then.”

Shacklebolt smiled at her serenely, and she was reminded of a time when his calm nature had been a constant reassurance to her. It resonated through him, seeping through his bones. Casual and elegant, as if he didn’t know of any other way to be. It was comforting once. 

Now, it was slightly irritating.

“I’m not a child anymore, Kings.” 

Hermione might have imagined his gaze darkening slightly, but she couldn’t be sure. 

“That,” he said slowly, “is obvious.” 

Dangerous.

OoO

There was a delightful sensation filling her up as she knocked back another shot of — what was it? Something fruity, and delicious. 

Kingsley wiped his mouth indelicately, which caused Hermione to snort. 

Though he was normally so well put-together- that was not the case in the current moment. His overcoat was slung on the back of his chair, his cufflinks had been undone, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows to reveal well-defined forearms. His tie had long since been removed and now rested in his pocket, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone to reveal a smooth expanse of dark skin. 

“So,” Hermione said once her laughter had quelled, “I never asked you why you stepped down from Interim-Minister. You know you could have easily held the office.” 

“I was never one for politics.” He licked his lips, and her eyes followed the movement. “I never had the stomach for beaurocratic bullshite. I just did what was needed at the time. Our current minister is doing a fine job. But the Auror Department needs a Head. I’m the best for the job, so they tell me.” 

He was getting more handsome the more he talked - or was it the more she drank? Or maybe Hermione had always thought so. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

Kingsley gestured for her to continue. 

“Do you think I’m crazy?” 

And maybe, he might have not said anything had he been less inebriated. Maybe he wouldn’t cross a boundary they would inevitably regret. But she was asking him slightly tipsy, and there was a vulnerability in her expression he’d not seen since before she was battle hardened. 

Kingsley thought once again about words, and their impact. It seemed the older he got, the less he needed to say. More important was the weight of those words, the quality of them rather than the number he could fit into an explanation she would hate hearing. He could have given her a synopsis of all the things he admired about her, all of the things he thought she could do better. He could tell her that the longer they sat next to each other, the fuzzier his brain became. He could give her words that made sounds, but not sense. 

However, he knew Hermione Granger and suddenly, he felt brave.

The weight of the words- simple, yet truthful sounds- were pulled from his lips, and hung in the air around them. Never could they be taken back. 

“I think you’re beautiful.”

Dangerous. 

OoO

“There’s something about you,” her voice was breathy with what could have been excitement, or maybe a little trepidation. 

His hands were big and calloused as they skimmed her rib cage. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” he groaned, thinking that her hands were his favorite part of her. They gripped his cock through his trousers, and his hips jerked forward. 

She grinned. 

Skin to skin- they contrasted sharply with each other. Pale legs wrapped around dark hips, their stomachs pressed together, a radical thing in some ways. In the low light of her flat, she could imagine that they melted into each other, like milk and chocolate. Together, they were sensational.

He stared at her for a moment, and she could see the anxiety and lust warring in his brain. They could not come back from this. There would be no pretending it didn’t happen if they continued. This was not a game, to either of them. Both a little broken, and so, so lonely. 

She kissed him, swiveling her hips against his, taking control of the moment. 

“Do I look afraid?”

Was it really only hours ago that she’d been in his office - confessing her fears to him, after being so defiant? Was it only hours ago that this - whatever was happening between them - would have never even crossed his mind? 

_ “Do I look afraid?” _she had asked. 

Her eyes were dark and hooded - but it was her smile that was slightly unsettling. 

It was sultry, yes. But more than that, it was a little bitter still. Like she knew he would inevitably disappoint her somehow. 

Maybe he was imagining it - but there was also a hint of vulnerability there, too. The question wasn’t rhetorical to her, and she needed his words, a reassurance. She was asking him.

_ She was testing her limits. _

His fingers swept up under the dress she was wearing, applying pressure, enjoying the way she couldn’t keep from groaning aloud. The kevlar had finally been discarded. 

“I think you’re dangerous,” he whispered, placing soft kisses on the shell of her ear and making his way to her neck, sucking on her pulse point. 

“I live for danger, apparently,” she laughed a little, but it was cut short as his body began manipulating hers in an inexplicable _ andante _, slow, sensual and deep. The lack of hesitation in his grip and movements spoke of experience. His thrusts were sure and steady, torturously slow. 

His white teeth glittered in the dark, showcasing a smirk she’d never seen him wear. Hermione had the urge to smack it off. But she resisted because the way he was moving in and out of her was so alluring, and she was chasing after a climax because really, it had been _ so _long. 

Savoring the moment, experiencing the taste of his lips, the way he moved against her. His ministrations were lithe, smoothe and sure like he was. Hermione thought to herself that, maybe, this was the outlet she needed. 

Here in this space, there was no seeping of madness, no fear of lidded eyes and wild, black hair. 

There was no drawing room. 

Just the two of them, safe and wrapped up in each other. 

When her orgasm hit, it was like the elements collided together and raged inside of her. Her legs spasmed and strained against him, a gigantic pressure erupting through her with a volcanic power. Light bursts behind her eyelids like little stars. He undulated underneath her, sweaty and spent, not wanting to move.

Kingsley held her close, brushing the matted hair from her forehead before placing a soft kiss there. She was lazily sprawled out against him, her breathing evening out as she lulled off to sleep. 

She slept without nightmares for the first time in years. 

oOo

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

She was late. 

Kingsley muttered obscenities under his breath in a frustrated huff. He didn’t like that the usually punctual witch kept him waiting, wondering if she’d done it on purpose to frustrate him. 

The woman was a menace. 

Their relationship had ignited after that night, and Kingsley had slowly watched her return to herself. She no longer had bags under her eyes, and she’d put on a healthy bit of weight. 

Kingsley knew he wasn’t the sole- or even main reason that Hermione was doing better- but maybe he had a small part. Just the parts that made her smirk a little, and her toes curl. 

She walked in then, the clicking of her heels making her entrance more poignant, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. She was his subordinate here, not his lover. 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

“Sorry I’m late, sir.” 

He wasn’t imagining the slight mocking tone she gave him. 

Witch.

He merely narrowed his gaze at her, and the session began as it normally did. 

Hermione answered his questions with earnestness, her brown eyes open wide. 

She had her moments where she was still guarded, but he now trusted her to work through it, rather than avoid it. 

_ Tick. Tick. Tick. _

“I think you’re ready,” he nodded slowly, signing off on her discharge notes, and closing the folder slowly. 

“Really?” Her smile was beautiful. Radiant, even. 

He nodded slowly. “And,” he said, loosening his tie, watching as her eyes followed his movements. “I’m officially off the clock.” 

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, a seductive smile playing her lips.

Dangerous. 

“Are you, now?” 

He nodded, jerking her forward and kissing her hungrily. 

“I am. I think we should go home and celebrate.” 

Kingsley's tone left no room for argument, and Hermione felt her stomach erupt in fireworks. 

She giggled, “I like the way you think.”

The End


End file.
